A/N

Another update? Yes, that's one good thing to come out of being cooped up at home.

After much consideration, and several ideas presented to me by fellow fans of the W40k universe, I've decided on a new arc for the Crimson King. While there is definitely room for redemption ( Magnus did a lot of wrong, take that you Thousand Sons fans jk ) I do believe some twists should be in order to keep the Grimdark theme alive.

But first, I believe it's time another beloved figure emerged from the sidelines.

Enjoy!

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The Murder Bunker ground to a halt, unleashing a cloud of thick black smoke from its exhaust, indicating a fire had ignited within the tank's ancient primary core. Power was rerouted from the auxiliaries while repairs were initiated so that the tank would be far from defenseless while the engine-seer did his work. Commander Dawn Coal, while waiting for Corligne to appease the petulant machine-spirits, spent the hour looking through the periscope for potential threats. It didn't take long for the commander to spot a sizable Chaos warband, most likely the same ones that destroyed the company they fought alongside with in the wasted plains.

"Enemy sighted." Coal announced, "Looks like they've seen us too."

"I hear you, Topside." Gunner Yosemite Slake grunted, pushing on a lever to bring his seat up to the gunners compartment so he could take control of the main cannon. He motioned for the loader, Garth McCain to assume the bow-gunner position, which lacked an operator since the battle of the wasted plains. "Garth, get up here."

"I see some berzerkers in that formation, watch out." Coal reported, "Don't let them get close this time, a'ight?"

"Yeah yeah." Garth grunted, sitting himself down on the scratched and torn chair still stained with the blood of the former bow-gunner and pushed himself forward so his head would fit in with the targeting sights. His eyes adjusted to the flare of the grainy green screen, his mind taking in the numbers and calculations pouring in. There was little time for him to make corrections, for the traitor astartes were already making a beeline for the tank. Once he had them in range, Garth unloaded the twin Vulcan mega-bolters in short, steady bursts.

The entire tank vibrated as the massive rotary cannons roared to life, the faint tinkle of spent casings rattling above the bulkheads sounding in between bursts, only to be drowned out by the thunderous bellow of the Murder Bunker's primary weapon. The first hail of titan-caliber rounds passed harmlessly across the field, missing the charging death-bikes by several meters.

"Firing for effect." Garth reported once the desired adjustment had been made. He didn't miss this time, and the next hail tore up the bikes and their riders into piles of flaming scrap and red mist.

A loud scraping noise reverberated across the gunner's compartment as Slake discarded the spent shell casing and pulled on a small yellow lever to let the next shell slide into place. He then shut the breech over the shell and prepared to fire. His performance suffered in the slightest due to them having a man short, but Slake found little reason to complain at the moment. He preferred getting the job done by himself, and there was no time to show his misgivings at their misfortune.

"Seer, now would be a good time to get us up and running." Coal said, watching warily as the armored giants in the distance swiftly closed the gap between them with the speed that only befit the astartes. To the replacement bow-gunner, he called out. "Garth, you'd better watch our left! They're moving to flank!"

"I see them." Another whirl of death, and the charging heretics were no more. The Murder Bunker had one advantage over the warband, and that was its positioning prior to its engine breaking down. Facing with its frontal glacis directly at the enemy, with its many weapons capable of swiveling to every angle, the tank was a wall of destruction. However, this would have worked well in a different scenario if the mission required the crew to hold the line.

Cut off from the rest of the regiment and armoured division, with a growing lack of ammunition and an uncooperative engine, the Murder Bunker could well be their tomb.


Elarique Swiftblade, seeing how quickly the berzerkers leaped at the chance of slaughter, commanded her forces to seize the moment and slip into the caverns undetected, remaining close to the heels of the sorcerer Ygethmor and his band of fiends from the broken Iron Warriors Legion. She knew little of what her enemy planned to do on Aksinar IV, yet the great pains he took to unearthing the ancient maze told of a powerful artifact the sorcerer planned to use in the name of Chaos- reason enough for her to disrupt his plans, and if she was lucky, cut the snake's head off and rid the galaxy of another fiendish sorcerer.

As half of the warband's forces engaged the powerful battle-tank outside, Elarique and her rangers snuck deep into the unearthed tunnels leading deep into the heart of Aksinar IV. Ygethmor was hasty in his procession into the prize that lay at the end of the maze, and in so doing summoned all manner of terrifying creatures bent on preventing intruders from breaching the sanctity of the tomb- curiously all man-made. Automatons bound by bodies of alien metal and burning with artificial fire, crafted by the hands of some long forgotten god, sprung free from the shadows and tore apart many of the heretic astartes while an uncaring Ygethmor kept pushing onwards in spite of the dangers cleaving through his entourage.

Elarique resisted the urge to sneer at the sorcerer's apparent foolishness, for in his haste, he was chipping away at his much needed escort and leaving himself vulnerable to Elarique's killing blow. The sorcerer was still a threat to be taken seriously, with or without his escort.

Vrakkar Mournseeker, the warband's leader who chose to accompany Ygethmor, had predictably reached the end of his patience. After the last of his finest warriors fell to the claws of a great mechanical beast, Mournseeker turned his weapons against the sorcerer, venting his rage upon him with murderous intent. Ygethmor expected this turn of events, having peered into the future numerous times since his arrival on Aksinar IV, and stirred all his hands could corrupt to purpose.

Anres, Mournseeker's second-in-command, unveiled his treacherous nature and struck down his master. His blade descended, slicing off Vrakkar's head from its shoulders and robbing the warlord of his life. Anres stood over the corpse and picked up Mournseeker's heavy greatmace, claiming his place as leader of the Iron Warriors- what was left of them anyway.

"Behold." Anres sighed, referring to himself. "The master of a broken brotherhood."

"You will become strong again, when we've taken what we came for." Ygethmor promised, "You've chosen wisely in siding with me, which is more than I can say for your predecessor."

"You promise much, sorcerer." Elarique said, emerging from the shadows with her twin blades drawn. "Too much."

"Now, you will prove your worth to hold that title." Ygethmor told Anres, raising his hands to cast a mighty spell. The new warlord stared in disbelief as the sorcerer closed the corridor over with a runic barrier, barring entry into the vault holding Vulkan's artifact and separating himself from Anres, who now stood alone against the Alaitoc Rangers and Swiftblade.

Anres gripped tightly onto Mournseeker's pilfered weapon and glared at the sorcerer, "True to your nature, I see."

Ygethmor eyed him with disdain, "Mistake my actions not for cowardice, young lord. I hold true to my words. Survive this day and I will indeed grant you power beyond your narrow mind can possibly imagine." He turned away to proceed further down the forgotten halls of antiquity, "Now, fight."

The Iron Warrior frowned, facing the Rangers with the heavy mace poised to strike. "Come then, xenos! Meet your death!"


The protective hull strained and groaned as massive hands possessed with superhuman and daemonic strength ripped open the sealed hatches. Garth was the first to be yanked out of his compartment, screaming vehemently as he discharged his laspistol at the giant pulling him free from his seat. The heretic didn't even bother cleaving him in two, instead tossing him to the daemonic flesh-hounds yipping excitedly for their meal.

Slake didn't wait for the Chaos spacemarines to force him out, choosing instead to take the fight to the heretics howling for his blood. He watched in horror as Garth was torn apart by the hounds below, his gurgled screams marring his psyche. That horror was soon replaced by grim acceptance as the eclipsing figure of the berzerker loomed over him.

"Fuck your gods, traitor!" Slake growled fearlessly, hurtling himself out of the tank and diving for the exposed grenade hanging at the berzerker's belt. No weapon on hand could kill a frenzied berzerker, but in that instance, Slake knew even a krak grenade could seriously injure even an Ork Nob. His death, while certain, could at the very least cost the enemy dearly.

Slake screamed in agony as the giant's chainaxe chewed on his back, the whirring teeth biting down on his spine and fracturing it in two upon impact. As he fell, his hand reached out in desperation, fingers hooking on to the safety pin. His weight was enough to pull it out and prime the grenade. Even as the chainaxe ripped the gunner in two, Slake forced out a choked, gurgled laugh.

With a loud bang, the grenade detonated, killing both the gunner and his assailant in one blast.

Inside the tank, Corligne sat immobile at his place next to the smoking engine, eyes closed and mind focused on praying. The machine-spirit drove a hard bargain, it would seem that it required the deaths of all its occupants before giving life to its engine. Deliverance was not for them, and the enginseer accepted this as a fact. "It is too late, Commander."

"You realize this now?" Coal groaned, sliding down beside the enginseer.

A two inch safety hatch was all that stood between them and their killers. Commander Coal's eyes met the enginseer and he lamented, "Would that we have perished alongside our fellow guardsmen on the wasted plains. For shame...an ignoble end, to be offered up like a sacrifice to their dark gods."

Corligne looked down at the stubborn engine, listening to the horrid vox-grill cries of the murderous spacemarines outside. He pondered on his commander's words and reached into the core to unhook it from its place, twisting several influx tubes and inhibitors to force the core into an overload. The engine still would not come to life, but the core was reaching critical mass in a matter of seconds. The enginseer knew the volatile nature of the device he held now, but he cared little for it, as he was now resigned to his end one way or another.

"Shall we deny them that satisfaction then, sir?" Corligne said.

"Eh, why not?" Coal shrugged, lighting his last cigar for the last time. "Just give me a second."


Anres roared in pain as he fell to his knees, the crippling pain in his lower back proving too much for even the tenacious warrior to handle. His power-armor's core pack had been torn off, leaving his suit empty and heavy. Swiftblade lived up to her name, always keeping out of reach, but always hitting the traitor astartes where it hurt. In this battle, Mournseeker's greatmace was Anres' flaw in his defensive strategy. Though he managed to slay every single one of Elarique's entourage of Rangers, the autarch never received even a scratch herself.

In the end, his reign was short-lived, and his stolen crown forfeited.

Elarique Swiftblade's sword pierced the back of his head and pushed through his mouth, forcing the warrior to spit out a torrent of black blood before sliding free from the sharp blade and collapsing to the dirt.

Without even taking a moment to savor her victory, Elarique raised her bloodied sword and thrusted it against the psychic barrier preventing her from entering the remainder of the long and ancient tunnel. Ygethmor's spell was weaker than most he had in store, but it was strong enough to prove unyielding to even the potent counter-spells of the aeldari's weapons.

Swiftblade frowned, took pause to let logic rule her actions instead of passion, then looked at the dirt walls that encapsulated the tunnel. She looked at the shimmering barrier, then back at the dirt walls. In this, she found her answer to the riddle.

With a gesture of her hand, she opened a portal that acted as a bypass to the barrier, its entrance tunneling through the dirt wall and into the opposite side of the psychic barrier. "Crafty, sorcerer, but low cunning had been mastered by my people long before you have." She resumed the chase, ignoring the guardians who had survived the sorcerer's onslaught as he proceeded further and further down the halls, and finally reached Ygethmor beyond the sundered doors of the vault.

There, she beheld the wondrous work of human hands, built to honor the demigod Vulkan in a civilization long dead. Their only memory lay in the artifact sitting in the middle of the ringed chamber of bright gold and blackest onyx, where massive marble statues of titans knelt prostrated, hands protectively encasing the hidden artifact beneath their fingers. Surrounding the chamber stood eighteen ebony torches, symbolizing the Salamanders' legion designated number.

Ygethmor eyed the relentless autarch with annoyance and turned away from his ministrations to face his foe directly. "I tire of this chase, interloper."

"As do I." Swiftblade growled, approaching the sorcerer as she ascended the steps separating the outer ring of the chamber to the middle ring, which stood precariously atop marble titans dramatically holding up the round slab of onyx like the forgotten titan who once held up the skies of Terra.

Ygethmor uttered a spiteful curse, slowing time around Swiftblade to a crawl, then raised his hand to unleash the Engine of Woes sitting beneath the hands of the marble titans. His actions, however, were not without consequence. The marble titans themselves were guardians of Vulkan's artifact, and opened their gleaming hateful eyes as they realized something was amiss.

The sorcerer recoiled in surprise as the giants, without removing their hands from the artifact, turned their gaze against the hated foe. Their mouths hung agape and with their breath they bathed him in divine fire.

Ygethmor staggered back, striking in turn with a blast from his staff that tore one of the titans' heads clean off from its shoulders. The flames ate at his armor and burned deep into his warped flesh, wounding the sorcerer critically. He cried out, immediately turning around to see Elarique leap free from the cursed space and strike at him while he remained open.

The torches, which up till now stood cold, suddenly sparked and flared to life. As the battle between the sorcerer and the autarch raged in earnest, the titans slowly removed their hands, revealing the golden sarcophagus that lay in the center of the chamber- the Engine of Woes. As though powered by the fire burning in the hearts of the two dueling in that forgotten vault, the sarcophagus slid open, unleashing a blazing pillar of fire that soon enveloped the room, threatening to reduce all that lay within to ash.

Undeterred by the blistering heat and white-hot conflagration of the Engine so zealously sought after by the sorcerer, Elarique fought on, ignoring with all her will the wounds opening up in her arms and face as the unnatural flames indiscriminately ate at her and Ygethmor.

"You die today!" She screamed above the roar of the fires burning around them.

Suddenly, a hand scorched black as night reached out and grasped the sorcerer from behind. Ygethmor swiveled about to meet the challenge of his new foe, but stood frozen in disbelief as a figure far more ancient than he was and possessing the raging fires of a newborn sun met his gaze. Seized with a foreign feeling he had not felt since becoming one of the Black Legion, Ygethmor trembled and dropped his staff.

The towering figure held him by the throat and plunged his fingers into the sorcerer's eyes, before unleashing another deadly corona of flame that throttled Elarique across the room and sending her slamming painfully face-first into the wall. Ygethmor's cries were drowned out as the fire burned him into ash, releasing another blast of energy that shook the chamber down to its foundations, bringing the mountain down upon the vault and the dragon reborn.

Vulkan stared, unmoving, as the crumbling bits of earth fell around him.

The Primarch's naked form moved across the fractured vault, his careful hands reaching out to pick up the fallen autarch, before ascending the tunnel and into the light of the world outside.

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THROUGH THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP! XD